


Small Tales and Tumblr Requests

by InkwellWarriors



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: In-Canon more like, M/M, Modern Author AU, Post-Canon, Tags Subject to Change, additional warnings in each chapter, oneshots, requested fics, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkwellWarriors/pseuds/InkwellWarriors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a collection of the oneshots I write in response to requests sent to my Shirefall tumblr. A variety of fandoms, topics, and pairings, each chapter will have warnings and a summary in the beginning of each chapter. Pairings will also be listed in the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Shall Be Thy Lover...

**Author's Note:**

> I got a request via fanmail from queenhobbit22 asking for Bard/Bilbo mpreg. They requested mature, and while I set out to write a rather steamy oneshot, what came out was quite different.
> 
> I wrote it in a fit of inspiration after work, and I'm rather proud of it to be honest. I put it in a more modern setting, and kinda sorta cheated on the mpreg, but I hope you still like it!
> 
> Rated T
> 
> Warnings: implied mpreg/offscreen mpreg
> 
> Title from a poem by Heather Alexander (found [here](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/403945-i-am-a-creature-of-the-fey-prepare-to-give)). The poem is technically about sirens, but I felt the phrase fit the story.

Bard Bowman pressed his hands to his face, resolutely ignoring the cursor on his screen. The blinking blight was the only thing to mar the otherwise pristine surface of his Word document for weeks. He was supposed to turn in the first draft of his novel to the publisher by the end of this week, easily done in the months allotted, but he had fussed and procrastinated until all his inspiration ran dry, leaving him floundering mere chapters in. He shifted in his chair, leaning back, and winced as sharp tingles alerted him his butt had gone numb. Right, he needed a drink. The study wasn't that far from the kitchen, though it felt twice as long when his legs didn't work right. He opened the fridge to find... no beer. And very little food. He tried to think back to when he had last gone grocery shopping, but he couldn't remember. He shut the fridge door with a groan and shrugged on some decent pants. If there was no food or booze here, he knew there would be some at his favorite pub just down the street.

The Dale Brewery was a bit dingy, but otherwise reputable, with the best fried fish and chips one could ask for and an amazing microbrew from the stillery behind the pub. Bard sank down onto a stool at the bar and ordered a tall glass of whatever was on tap. It wasn't until halfway down his second glass that he took a look around. Most of the patrons were fairly familiar, but the man sitting next to him certainly was not. He was short, far shorter than Bard even sitting down, with curly blond hair and a fair complexion, unmarred but for a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was cute, Bard noticed behind the tingle of the alcohol burning through his system. A mischievous smile curled plush lips.

"See something you like?" The blond asked his tumbler. Bard blinked and took another look. Hazel eyes were looking right at him from under curled bangs and Bard realized with a start the man was talking to him. He sputtered, feeling his face going red, and the man laughed, swiveling in his stool to face him. "I couldn't help notice you were staring at me."

"I, um, that is, uh, you're, you're really attractive," Bard blurted out, tripping over his words as if he had had three drinks instead of one and a half. He took a deep drag of the beer, hoping it would cool the flush on his face.

The blond laughed again, a most pleasant sound. He rested his chin on his fist, elbow on the counter of the bar. "Honesty, I like it," he commented with a smile. "What's your name?"

"Bard." He left off his last name; while he wasn't a well-know author, he had more his share of crazy fans, and he desperately didn't want this man to be one of them. "What's yours?"

"You can call me Bilbo," the man said after a moment of thought, brushing a strand of hair from in front of his eyes.

"Well, Bilbo, what brings you here on such a night?" Bard leaned closer, genuinely interested in the response. Something about this Bilbo drew him in, whether it was his almost ethereal beauty or natural charisma, he had no clue. Bilbo furrowed his brows into an adorably annoyed expression and launched into a story of his nosy cousin that had Bard in stitches, clinging to the bar in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright as he roared with laughter. The other patrons ignored him, used to happy drunks.

It was true Bard had been drinking, but not nearly enough to truly be drunk. And he felt different than he did drunk; he felt lighter, brighter, happy on such a deep level he had never thought he could achieve again. Before long, he found himself spilling his sorry story to Bilbo, or what little had been written so far at least.

He vaguely recalled Bilbo offering to look it over for him, or something of the like, but right now he was far more focused on pressing the beautiful man against his door and kissing the daylights out of him. Bilbo gave as good as he got, clinging to Bard's shoulders and tipping his mouth against Bard's for a better angle. Bard managed to get the door open and they stumbled inside, heading for the bedroom but pressing the other against anything they could along the way. That night was filled with passion and pleasure like Bard had never had before, leaving him boneless and utterly content. Bilbo cleaned them up after, ignoring Bard's fumbling attempts to help, and cuddled up with the taller man under the blanket. Bard held him close and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning, Bilbo was gone, leaving only a note with beautiful handwriting on the pillow where he had been. It said something had come up at work and he'd had to go. Bard sighed; not even a phone number for him to call if he wanted to. That's alright, he figured, it had only been a one night stand.

He soon forgot his disappointment, as inspiration struck him like a hammer on a bell, ringing all through his brain. He dropped the mug he'd been holding - luckily into a pile of napkins, so it didn't shatter - and ran for his laptop. The hours passed in a blur of words and ideas, things coming to him almost faster than he could type them.

This was what he loved about being a writer: the rush of a new idea barreling through the brain, bringing a fake world to life with words. All writing was only 26 letters, but sometimes the combinations of those letters could be simply sublime.

Bard woke from his writing haze a full day later, utter exhausted and starving. He'd written over 200,000 words and his fingers felt like they had been typing that long. He winced as he stretched out the cramps, stumbling up to get some food. Miraculously, he found a can of soup in his pantry and heated it as his victory dinner. He would get his book done on time, and it looked like it would be amazing.

He met Bilbo again a couple months later. His novel, _Laketown Burning,_ had been a bestseller, so now he was working on the sequel. But, once again, he was stuck and down at the bar of Dale Brewery, hoping to find inspiration at the bottom of a glass. While he had been hoping to see Bilbo again, his hopes hadn't been high, since every time he'd come here since the blond never showed. But this time, as he approached the bar, a familiar head of curly blond hair stuck out from the crowd. He grinned and sat on the empty stool beside him, ordering his usual. Bilbo smiled at him, a heartening sign; Bard had been half afraid Bilbo never wanted to see him again.

"I read _Laketown Burning,_ " Bilbo said. "I quite liked it, especially the dedication."

Bard blushed a little. The dedication read, _"To B, my muse. Sometimes inspiration can come from the most unexpected places."_

"You don't think it was too forward?” Bard worried. Bilbo smiled and picked up Bard's hand, placing a kiss on his fingers.

"Not at all! And it's rather flattering to be thought of as your muse." Bilbo laughed as if at a joke only he got.

They talked for hours at the bar before Bard invited him home. They managed to make it through the door before engaging in a liplock this time, but still the passion was there, the fire. Bilbo was gone again in the morning, leaving a note, a pleasant soreness in Bard's back, and fresh inspiration.

It went much the same when they met a third time, though this time much closer to the second meeting than Bard had had to wait before.

As the afterglow burned pleasantly through them, Bard laid his head on Bilbo's stomach, gently stroking the creamy skin. "You're a bit rounder than last I saw you," he teased light-heartedly; he did not notice Bilbo stiffen imperceptibly. "Been eating too many of Beorn's honeycakes?"

Bilbo laughed and combed his fingers through Bard's hair. "That man does wonderful things with pastries."

Bard fell asleep not long after that. Bilbo was again gone in the morning, but Bard was expecting that. The night before, Bilbo had explained that mornings just felt awkward to him, especially when one had to leave right away and could not stay for breakfast. They had kissed farewell before going to sleep, but still a note waited for him covered in Bilbo's elegant handwriting. Bard caressed the paper before getting up to start breakfast. His eggs went cold, though, as he suddenly figured out the solution to a problem his character faced and hurried off to write it before he forgot.

So it went for the new few months: Bard would write until he encountered a block, then went to the pub and met up with Bilbo -who was ever a bit chubbier with each meeting, not that Bard was complaining-, they'd have a night of passionate sex, and Bard would again with renewed fervor. Bard's second novel of the series, _Laketown Ashes,_ met with equal success and carried a similar dedication.

He did not see Bilbo for many long months after that, though it might have been because he was on a book tour for part of the time. When he finally did make contact with the blond, though, it wasn't at all what he was expecting.

One morning, roughly ten months after first meeting Bilbo, Bard opened his door expecting to see the newspaper. What he saw instead was a beautiful woven basket, with fluffy green blankets inside cradling a sleeping baby. He looked up and down the street in confusion; was this a prank? Some strange mistake? But when he looked upon the basket again, he saw an envelope sticking out of a fold of one of the blankets with his name in a familiar script. His heart pounding and sinking at once, Bard brought the baby and the note inside.

The letter, far longer than any note Bilbo had previously written him, explained all: Bilbo was a minor deity, a Muse of written word, in fact. He hadn't told Bard before because he thought it wouldn't matter and he didn't want the man to think him insane. However, they also hadn't been very careful when they had sex and so, Sigrid. That was their daughter's name, Bilbo explained. Bard nearly fainted in shock. He'd... they'd... A daughter?? How??

He inspected the child, but had to admit the baby girl looked startling like the both of them. She had Bilbo's curly blonde hair, but facial features that clearly belonged to Bard's side of the family. He turned back to the letter, absently stroking the fingers on his free hand through Sigrid's fine hair.

Bilbo explained that deities didn't quite work like humans did, so yes, that was their child. But that also meant he could not raise Sigrid; for that he put his faith and trust in her father. _I'm confident you will give her a warm and loving home,_ Bilbo wrote. _I don't know when I'll see you again, but I look forward to seeing how our baby girl's grown, even if she never knows who her other parent is. The proper paperwork should be arriving in the mail later today, so no one will raise too much of a fuss over her._

The letter ended with Bilbo giving Bard his love, then a flourishing signature. Bard traced the letters of his name, suddenly acutely missing the blond and regretting every time he held back saying how much he cared for him, no matter how unorthodox and relaxed their relationship.

He picked up Sigrid and saw, to his relief, a box of baby formula and diapers under her blanket cocoon in the deep basket. He held the baby to his chest, smiling when she scrunched her nose up and sleepily blinked open her eyes. They were hazel, just like Bilbo's.

"Well, Sigrid," Bard said aloud, sitting down on the couch, "looks like I'll have some shopping to do."

He would miss Bilbo and continue to hope to see him soon. But now, he also had a little reminder of him here in his arms, and Sigrid was quickly making her way into his heart.


	2. Sweet Apples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unprompted, just a cute little something I wanted to write while thinking of Frodo and Sam.
> 
> rating: G  
> pairing: Frodo/Sam  
> post War of the Ring  
> No warnings (unless you count tooth-rotting sweetness)
> 
> Again, un-betaed, so any mistakes are my own.

     Frodo was never the same after the Quest. Oh, neither was Sam of course, but he was far better at hiding his changes. Even the scars Frodo didn't wear on his skin plain as the nine fingers on his hands showed through in his long moments of silence or shouts of fright in the night. Now, Sam couldn't do much for those scars that ran too deep, but there were some things he could do.

     "Here now, Mister Frodo," he said jovially, making sure his feet shuffled on the path so as to not startle the other hobbit. Frodo's smile was small, but no less sweet for its presence as he looked up as Sam from his seat on the garden bench. An unlit pipe sat in his hand, marking what he had come outside to do hours ago. Sam shifted the basket on his hip, holding it securely with one hand while he fished an apple out from the bushel. "That apple tree of yours sure does grow some of the tastiest apples in Hobbiton! Go on, try one!" He passed the apple to Frodo and made sure he was eating it before he continued speaking. "Why, I'll bet no lass could make a pie as sweet as if she used these here apples, even if she used all the sugar in the Shire!" he exclaimed.

      That drew a welcome laugh from Frodo, who looked at him with bright blue eyes for once not haunted by events past. "No pie could match the sweetness of your words when you get into it," Frodo teased. Sam blushed and sputtered, but let Frodo pull him down into an apple-sweet kiss happily. Frodo left his eyes closed for a moment after, savoring, which made Sam's heart beat something fierce in his chest. When those eyes opened again, they landed upon the half-full basket and he tipped his head to the side a touch.

     "My dear Sam, that basket's barely even half-full! Surely that's not all the fruit that old tree made?"

     "No indeed," Sam answered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, "but all the rest were too high for me to reach, even with the ladder!"

     Frodo laughed again, making Sam feel warmer than a summer's afternoon. "Sam, don't tell me even after all we've been through, you're still afraid to climb that apple tree?"

     "Well..." Sam drew out the word, a bit embarrassed. He knew he had climbed far more treacherous things on the Quest, but childhood fears had a way of sticking around like a crooked splinter caught deep. Frodo tucked his pipe away and stood from the bench, reaching out to lace his four-fingered hand with Sam's free-hanging one. Sam hitched the basket higher on his hip before he followed Frodo's gentle tugging toward the apple tree.

     "Come along, Sam, I will climb the apple tree for you. I hear the apples from the top branches are twice as tasty!" Frodo nearly cheered, his sudden enthusiasm a welcome change from his silent melancholy earlier. Sam gently tightened his fingers with Frodo's, smiling wide.

     "I'll wait for you at the bottom, and catch you if you fall," he promised. Frodo stopped and pulled Sam in close, stroking his other hand through Sam's sun-gold hair with a fond smile on his lips. He touched that smile to Sam's forehead for a moment before drawing back.

     "Oh Sam. I never doubted you would."

**Author's Note:**

> I am no longer taking requests and have had to delete my existing shirefall Tumblr. I may make one in the future if I continue the main story, but for now there is not one.


End file.
